


melting

by awkwardeye



Series: Second POV [5]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M, terribly written smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:09:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8128063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardeye/pseuds/awkwardeye
Summary: Kylo warms you on a cold morning





	

**Author's Note:**

> wow this sucks rip anyone who reads this
> 
> ALSO i hope everyone is having a great day and feels like they matter (even though that has nothing to do with this)
> 
> ALSO wow i feel like a lot of my recent stuff was just drowning in metaphors and symbolism, just shameful purple prose, and now i'm toning it down

Every morning is the same. You wake with tangled limbs, your eyelashes clinging together, and a corner of the blanket thrown over your shoulder, useless against the biting chill of winter settling. It’s so cold you can see your breath escape in small clouds too light to resemble cigarette smoke and soft around the edges, dissipating vapor. There’s frost gathering on the edges of the windows, peeking out where the blinds don’t fall quite right. Today, your chest feels unbearably empty and cold, but less so when you run your fingers through his hair and kiss the corner of his sleeping lips, not quite coaxing him out of bed yet. Since last night, you’ve been thinking you might hate him. If you do, it’s no surprise. He paraded a whore in front of your face while you wore his ring like an idiot. 

You feel your pillow beneath your head and the thought of smothering him to show him the feelings he forces upon you every time he closes the door behind him without a word or offers a vague answer to a specific question: helplessness, like your life no longer belongs to you. With the thought, the serenity of the early morning is lost in still darkness casting pale shadows. Bitter, you turn away from Kylo, curling your body briefly into a ball. And then you turn back and cling to him for warmth, for comfort.

The bruises on your skin remind you of the sky when the sun sets: all deep hues tainted by yellow, clouded. They make you want to stay inside and draw the blinds because of their catalyst. You can’t draw the blinds and shut out your own body like sunlight, but you can close your eyes and pretend for a moment that the warmth against your chest is enough to make you forget the bite of winter on your back permeating your thin gown.

Last night was a mess of raised voices and sore limbs, crashing hips and splitting lips. Yet, you can’t deny the pleasure found between his lips with your name on them repeated like a mantra as you filled his vision with yourself and he reminded you that you belong to him in a sense. The thought brings a shiver to your spine. Your body is no longer wholly yours now that you share a bed with Kylo Ren.

You spread your fingers across his stomach, feeling him stiffen, and a small part of you knows what he’s thinking. You want to be so close to him, even closer than this. You know that you cannot get any closer when you’re thigh to thigh, chest to back, cheek to neck, but there is this lingering fear that you’ll be stuck wanting more forever. And the thought alone terrifies you, though you’re not sure if it’s because of the prospect of waiting for nothing or being stuck with him for as long as your forever will be. The ache of your throat reminds you of last night and your stomach twists both pleasantly and painfully.

“You’re not as angry as you were last night,” Kylo says.

“I’m hurt.”

“Of course, you are.”

“You’re my husband.” You scowl at his back.

“And you’re my wife.”

You lay in silence, trying to understand the man you’re now eternally bound to.

A few minutes later, Kylo sits up and stares blankly down at you. He’s an early riser when he sleeps. It’s rare that he’s truly asleep behind closed eyelids, but when he is you’re always filled with an inexplicable excitement as you take advantage of the situation. Though he always allows your clinging and chaste kisses, he grows irritable with too much affection, but it’s all you were told to give him. So when he’s asleep, you pretend he’s a gentle thing and cover his face in kisses. Those are the mornings he wakes playful and takes you slowly with roaming hands and soft lips and you like to think his mood is a result of your affection. He lifts your legs, spreading them apart to kneel between them.

“Take it off,” he says, balling your nightgown in his fist briefly.

Sitting up awkwardly, you pull the nightgown over your head, feeling the cold air kiss your skin. You try to remember the old days when you woke up in your own bed, when you were young and you played on the beach with your cousins, trying to lighten your mood. But his ravenous eyes raking over your bare form are always a bit frightening, forcing a wave of unwitting arousal. He’s different from the husband your parents told you to expect. He’s a stranger, a monster, a man who only agreed to marry you because he had no other option and now sees you most days as a sex toy obligated to stay beside him. Still, he rarely allows you to accompany him to events, instead choosing to dress whores finely instead of his wife. He has his moments, though. Like your wedding night that had felt nearly normal despite a scheduled consummation overseen by an old man with wide eyes that had judged any movement that brought pleasure to either of you.

You close your eyes when you feel his hands begin to explore your body, sliding up your torso with fingers spread wide. He’s rewarded with a small gasp when he traps your nipples between his fingers, tugging them lightly until you open your eyes. Imagining an ocean, you pretend not to notice his fingers on your sex, touching you  _ there _ , dragging a lithe finger over your entrance, dipping it suddenly into your sex. When the finger slips back up to circle your clit, now slick, you bite your lip and attempt to press your thighs together. You trap his hand for a moment, that finger never ceasing, before he forces your thighs apart again.

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t enjoy it because you’re angry,” Kylo says.

“I don’t,” you say, your voice shaking. You hold his wrist, but don’t try to stop its movements.

“Really?”

Your grip on his wrist tightens when he slips two fingers into you, thrusting once, twice, three times, all the way to his knuckles with his thumb working your clit. Your skin burns and you’re so very aware of his thumb and the electricity that gathers between your legs. Turning your head, you drop his wrist when he holds his glistening fingers before your eyes.

“Your cunt says you do.”

Kylo swipes his fingers across your lips, forces the digits between them, but can’t do much about your teeth. He pinches your nose and waits for you to gasp, shoving them immediately into your mouth, pressing them against your tongue. The taste of yourself fills your mouth and you struggle in vain to free your tongue from its place beneath his too large digits. He keeps your legs spread wide with his knees. Chuckling when you attempt to speak, he slowly drags his fingers from your mouth. A string of saliva hangs idly between his fingertips and your mouth until it breaks.

“I heard you thinking about smothering me. What a loving wife…”

You glare at the bruises on your forearm, considering his hypocrisy. As if he’s a loving husband! As if you haven’t let him mold you into his every desired position! As if you haven’t kept your mouth shut whenever he leaves you in this godforsaken room with only the remains of his opponents and a mottled mask! As if he truly cares! As if you’re here for any reason other than a trading of affluency for sexual favors! As if last night he didn’t beat you and call it sex after you argued, treating you like a prostitute rather than a lover! Ungrateful bastard...

“If you never tell me what you want, I’ll always be selfish.”

“I want to see the ocean again.”

“Perhaps, one day,” he replies, pulling his erection free of his pants.

“I want to be kissed softly on the…” The rest of your sentence is swallowed by a moan when he pushes himself into you.

For a tantalizing moment, Kylo is completely still, allowing you to savor the feeling of him stretching your sex that accepts him all the way to the hilt. You trace the line of dark hair that leads to his cock now buried within you and whimper when his finger returns to your clit, slick and toying with the nub. He leans down, pulling his hips back so that only his head sits in you and you whine, impatient. When his lips press briefly against yours, you’re wild with giddiness at the returned affection; you haven’t realized how much you’ve been craving it. But the pure happiness of the situation is replaced with a sudden insatiable desperation when he thrusts forcefully back into your hole.

His pace is fast, unrelenting, and he positions himself so that his lips are just above yours, brushing them teasingly. If you close your eyes, your breath catches in your throat and all you can focus on is how good he feels, burning, firm, while you struggle to maintain your usual cool composure, but you’re alway made a moaning mess by Kylo Ren when he infiltrates your body so intimately. He withdraws and you see your arousal shining on his cock. Your head is filled with your need for him. An amused groan leaves his lips and you know he’s heard your thoughts.

“Next time,” he says. “You’ll wet my cock with your tongue instead.”

Kylo forces your eyes to his when he speaks, fucking you so forcefully the headboard slams against the wall. The springs creak, his soft grunts and moans of pleasure mingling with your sighs and whines, and as you draw closer to your orgasm, feeling a tightening between your thighs, you grasp his arm and murmur praises of his body until he lifts your legs so that your knees are level with your chin and every thrust is a burst of pleasure only his body can bring to you.

When your orgasm hits, he slows his pace and kisses you to silence your incoherent babbling and whimpers as your hips jerk and buck uncontrollably against his, legs shaking. Every muscle in your body tenses and relaxes and you feel the pleasure curl your toes. You barely register the shift in perspective when he flips you over onto your stomach, lifts your hips, and plunges back into you. Your back arches and you bite the sheets to muffle the noises you make, a hand reaching out behind you to flatten over his stomach while he uses your body to reach his own end. He grunts as he spills into you, hips pulling back so that he can stain your skin.

You gasp when he falls forward onto you, but accept his warmth and weight both because it’s what you’re supposed to do and what you  _ want _ to do. But he moves quickly, stiffly, as if he’s uncomfortable with even a moment of prolonged affection. Though you want to pull him back down, you lay completely still and listen to him walk to the bathroom to clean himself. And he moves to the door to leave again without a word once he’s dressed and ready, pulling his mask on.

“I want you to take me to all of your galas and gatherings from now on,” you say, too nervous to look at him for the tense moment of silence.

“We’ll see.”

“And I want you to kiss me before you leave in the mornings.”

“You demand too much of me.” But he can’t hide his flushed cheeks as he returns to the bed to allow you to press a chaste kiss to his cheek.

Your lips linger a moment, eyes searching his, and you wonder if you’ll ever come to love this man for these warm, rare mornings in which he allows such mindless intimacy.


End file.
